She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller

by C. M. Stephenson

  As always, she’d been fastidious, there was no sign whatsoever of the diary.

  She let out a groan of frustration. Like the kitchen and front room, every nook and cranny of the house is filled with miscellanea. Staplers, pencils, rubbers, small notebooks covered in her mother’s looping scrawl, appointments cards – years out of date, reminders from the vets, recipes cut from the back of Weetabix boxes, crossword puzzle books half completed and thrown aside. Then she started upstairs – her mother’s bedroom cramped with yet more hand-me-downs. Three-legged bedside tables nestle against the double bed. Half-open dusky pink curtains allow a glimpse of the tops. Either side of the window, a six-drawer chest stands tall; wedding gifts – one from each side of the family. In the far corner of the room an ornate commode that had been her great-great grandmother’s lies, covered in dust, thankfully empty. Opposite it a linen press crammed with woollen blankets. The stench of camphor and damp stung her eyes and cloyed in her throat as she opened it up. She’d slammed the lid shut immediately, leaving that for another day.

  Other than in their own bedroom, Karen’s room, there was only one place, the loft. It was the first place the police had checked, back in 1973. After the missing person’s bedroom, it’s always the next place Thomasine herself heads for when on a case. Pulse racing, sweat running down her back. It’s always the same, dark places set her on edge.

  Thomasine wipes the crumbs of toast off her lips, washes them down with the last dregs of tea. Best not to put it off. Best to do it now. Best to be professional. Those nagging voices she knows so well reverberate in her head. She grabs the large black torch she’d found on the top shelf of the pantry and makes for the stairs. The loft is accessed via the upstairs landing, between the bedrooms, a narrow door with a set of wooden steps behind it. Jammed shut by a cast iron bolt with a brass handle.

  She hasn’t been up there since she was a child. Her mouth goes dry, her feet root to the spot. She tries to blink away the memory. Karen’s high-pitched voice pierces her ears, her fingers sliding shut the bolt. ‘Don’t you go up in the loft, Thom… it’s private. Only Mam and Dad can go in there,’ her eyes widen, her lips pull into a grin, ‘and me of course.’ Then she’d flounced her way downstairs, leaving Thomasine alone, in front of the door, in front of temptation. She must have been about four, perhaps five-years-old at the time – always curious, into everything, easy to wind up, set running like a clockwork toy. She’d reached on her tiptoes, her chubby fingers slid back the lock. The door creaked open, she snuck inside.

  Without warning, a

  fist slammed into her back. She pitched head first into the darkness, hitting the side of her face on the steps. The door behind her banged shut.

  Thomasine brushes her forefinger over her left cheek, runs it over the blemish above her cheekbone – the scar, less than a few millimetres long yet her eyes rarely missed it when she looked in the mirror.

  ‘I told… you… not to go in there,’ Karen’s voice muffled by a scratching noise as she stuffed the narrow gap between the floor and door with a rolled-up newspaper. The weak band of light snuffed out.

  She’d pleaded to come out. Said she was sorry. Said she’d never do it again. She thought it was a joke. Karen was always playing jokes on her. Her words were greeted by silence.

  Her parents oblivious to her plight, dipping the sheep in the lower field.

  Eventually, Karen had let her out, open-palmed she slapped Thomasine full in the face. Told her that it was a lesson that she’d better learn from.

  ‘Never, ever,’ she gripped her by the shoulders, ‘disobey my orders again.’

  The memory hovers between herself and door like a ghost.

  Her fingers pull back the bolt; the door swings open. She tips the beam of the torch upwards into the roof space. As she treads on the top step—the wood squeals out in pain. She freezes. Flashes the beam of the torch up to the ceiling, waits for the flurry of black wings – bats. She hates them. Nothing moves.

  The noise, she’d not expected the noise. The chattering swirls around her, it’s the Southerly wind hitting the roof, pulling at the tiles, letting them fall as it makes its way across the valley, towards the coast.

  The size of the loft surprises her, it’s huge. Six heavy oak beams strain under the weight of a sagging roof. There’s a proper floor, though she can barely see a plank of it.

  A dank, yeasty odour fills her nose. The bright light of the torch seeks out the source of the smell, a rack of old clothes, two floor-length fur coats, matted with spider webs and dead flies.

  Chinks of light squint through broken tiles and rotting timber. On the ceiling, large patches of mould eat at the plaster – huge swathes of black fungi. A tight band of pain stretches across her forehead. The thought of replacing the roof. Even just repairing it will cost a fortune.

  ‘What the hell!’

  A pair of yellow eyes glow in the shadows. A fox, half-bald, its jaws wide open. A stuffed animal. Blood rushes in her ears; she can hear the boom of her heartbeat. In the same box, a stoat standing on its hind-legs, a dog lying curled up in sleep.

  The further in she goes, the more ancient and decrepit it gets. A child’s wardrobe – cornflowers, dandelions, buttercups embellish the door. A matching headboard, another commode, a school desk. All riddled with woodworm. She dips her head to avoid the hazards hanging from the rafters. Rotting lampshades – fringes tattered, a red and blue turkey rug folded over, the size of the front room, ravaged by moths and caked with dust. Five or six hessian sacks of wool.

  Against the back wall, two heavy bookshelves; at least three metres high, the wood swollen with damp. She has no idea how they got up there. No recollection of them ever being in the house. In a higgledy-piggledy fashion are tens of books, their ornate jackets covered in faded gold lettering, their pages bloated and uneven.

  ‘What a waste,’ she says the words out loud as though to allocate blame to whoever put them there.

  Her foot catches on something, she looks down at her feet: a book, A Sister’s Devotion. She leaves it be – it feels like an ugly reminder of the sister she’s never been. Maybe that was the problem, she thinks to herself. Maybe I’ve been living the wrong life, the sister of someone painted so differently by our own mother that I could never believe it was the same person. Yet I had to pretend they were that person the whole of my life.

  She takes a step back. The bookshelves wobble a little. The boards tilt unevenly beneath her feet. She shines the torch in an arc, something is off-centre. It’s the depth of the shadow. She inches herself nearer, the shelves are not proud to the wall. The gap is drenched in cobwebs, their latticework a crocheted curtain that keeps out predators and pulls in victims.

  She casts the light down to the floor, it’s littered with blankets, pillows, black with mould and the smell so repugnant that she covers her nose.

  The initials KA are carved into the back of the bookshelf.

  It’s a cubbyhole. A hiding place – or it had been.

  33

  He’d slept badly; violent dreams of young girls, parties, drugs – his daughter.

  Jimmy fills his cup with the remainder of the coffee from the cafetiere. Through the window, in the distance, a heron drags its feet over the water.

  The waitress, dressed in black skinny jeans and a burgundy sweater, appears out of nowhere. The sun catches the diamond stud in her left ear.

  ‘More coffee, sir?’ Her hand reaches for the empty cafeterie. Her voice has a warm tone, a lightness that reminds him of his daughter.

  ‘No, thanks.’ He fakes a smile. His chair scrapes against the wooden floor as he gets out of his seat. He makes for the French doors that open onto the garden, pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his breast pocket and slips them on. The morning light so fierce it hurts his eyes.

  Red berries gleam on winter shrubs, woodland coppices punctuate the horizon. A fine layer of frost covers the grass. Fleetingly he wonders if he should get a place in the country. It could b
e the final obliteration of the man he’d once been, whose life had been fuelled by drugs, money and power. He’d been nearly forty before he truly let go of it, before it had let go of him. A bitter taste fills his mouth; an angry thought raises its ugly head. His need to be the father that his daughter would love and respect, weakened him.

  A low mist hangs over the fields, above it a citrus winter sun glimmers through. Ahead of him, there’s a gate with a sign above it, The Pear Orchard. He wanders in, kicks at the fallen leaves. Patches of snowdrops push up through the grass. A pair of magpies chatter loudly up in the boughs of a tree. He pulls up his collar, digs his hands deeper into his pockets. The mobile phone in his breast pocket rings, it’s Fizz.

  ‘Hiya sweetheart – how’s things?’ He asks her about work, about what the restaurant took last night, who was in. They talk like they always do, it’s relaxed, matter of fact, the occasional laugh. He weaves his way to the point he wants to make, about the gallery, about the exhibition. He laughs, says he thought the artist had the hots for her.

  She

  giggles, ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I noticed how he looked at you.’ The words come out in a light-hearted tone.

  She chuckles. ‘Since when have you been interested in my sex life?’

  ‘Sex life? Since you were born,’ he doesn’t laugh.

  ‘None of your business, Dad.’

  His voice is tense. ‘Has he got your number?’

  ‘Of course, he has, I organised the exhibition.’

  The air escapes from his lungs, the image of that man’s hands on his daughter crucifies him. He chokes back the emotions, fakes an interruption, terminates the call. He cannot tell her not to see him because that would be a red rag to a bull – a lesson learnt years ago.

  It takes him five minutes to check out of the hotel, then he’s back on the road, the heel of his foot deep on the accelerator, the speed racking up as he careers down the narrow lanes towards the barn.

  He drives past it, takes the first turning on the left, follows the signs for a nature reserve, the road is littered with potholes, a small gritted area serves as a carpark. He slips the car between small red Punto and a bright yellow Ford Kia.

  The air goes out of him. He puts his head in his hands. Fizz, Melissa, the restaurant. He has a different life, a good life. His eyes shine with tears. What will he do when he sees him? Threaten him? Kill him?

  But now – who is he now? He’s a businessman desperate for grandchildren. That’s who he is. He gets out of the car, makes his way back down the main road. Within minutes he’s outside the barn. The curtains are drawn, there’s no sign of life. He knocks on the door loudly, moments later he hears her voice.

  ‘Won’t be a minute.’ It’s her, the wife, Lottie.

  The door opens a crack. ‘Oh—’ her eyes widen in the surprise. ‘You’re Jimmy, aren’t you?’ She has the dishevelled look of someone who’s just climbed out of bed, her fingers grasp at the belt of her dressing gown.

  The words tumble over this tongue. ‘Jimmy, James, I answer to both. Sorry it’s early, Lottie. I was just passing. Fizz is in Norwich scouting for a new gallery.’ He scratches the underside of his chin; a slow smile crosses his lips. ‘I thought I’d check out the coast, get some fresh air. Then I remembered you telling me you lived next to a converted water tower. I saw it in the distance.’ He takes a step back and holds up the palms of his hands. ‘Sorry if I woke you up.’

  Her cheeks pinch pink. ‘No, no, I was up, just about to have a shower.’ She glances down at her dressing gown, pulls it tight around her waist again. ‘It’s just me, I’m afraid. Rob’s out.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I can’t believe it; you’ve just missed him.’

  ‘That’s not a problem.’ He takes another step back up the path. ‘Is there a café around here, I’ll get a coffee before I head back?’

  A look of concern crosses her face. ‘No, no, come in. Have one here, it’s the least I can do.’ She opens the door. ‘Come through,’ she lets out a weak smile, ‘the place is a bit of a mess.’ Together, they go through to the kitchen, the chaos of the previous night still evident. In a flurry of activity, she loads the dishwater, the plates clamour together noisily as she lifts them out of the washing up bowl.

  ‘Please don’t make any effort for me, it’s kind of you to offer me a coffee.’

  Lottie pauses for a moment, runs her fingers through her hair. ‘It’ll only take a minute, let me just pop upstairs and get changed.’ She looks down at herself, at her dressing gown, ‘I’ll feel better if I do that.’ She hurries out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

  His eyes go to the kitchen table, to the dark red stain, to where their bodies had lain. The mask slips from his face, his jaw tightens, the knuckles on his hands go white. He takes in the room, silently he opens the drawers on the dresser, runs his fingers through the contents, he picks up a stack of letters, flicks through them. He hears her footsteps above him, panics. He picks up the house magazines strewn across the floor, wipes the worktops down with a cloth. He was about to take out the rubbish when she comes back into the room.

  Lottie blushes a violent red. ‘Oh… there was n—’

  ‘Sorry, just keeping myself busy, hope you don’t mind, I’m hopeless at doing nothing.’ He holds up his hands, gives her a broad smile, ‘I’m a bit OCD like that. And on the plus side, it’ll give us a bit more time to get to know each other.’

  Her eyes cloud over for a moment, she wants him to leave, he knows that he has gone too far.

  ‘You shouldn’t have,’ there’s a sharpness in her voice, ‘I was about to get started when you knocked at the door.’ She turns over the cuffs on her jumper, picks up a tea cloth, puts it down again. ‘Take a seat, what can I make you, tea, coffee?’ She puts on the kettle.

  ‘Coffee would be great, thanks… it’ll help me keep awake for the journey back home. I’m driving, Fizz will no doubt be fast asleep. That’s what she usually does. Kids, eh.’

  ‘We don’t have any.’ There no sadness in her eyes, she’s matter of fact. ‘Just the dog, Horace. He must be out in the garden.’

  ‘Tell me about yourself. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk the other night at the gallery.’

  She tucks her hair behind her ears. ‘There’s nothing much to tell really, we’ve been together for years. He paints, I look after the house.’

  ‘How long?’ he couldn’t help himself, he had to know.

  ‘Since the ark, about twenty years, maybe a bit more, I don’t keep count,’ she places two cups beside the kettle, scoops a teaspoon of coffee in each.

  ‘Where did you meet?’

  Her eyes falter, the clouds come back, she covers her mouth with her hand.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, it completely escaped my mind.’ An apologetic look transforms her face, the kettle boils, she switches it off. ‘I promised a girl from the village that I’d go to Pilates with her. I can’t let her down.’ She looks up at the wall clock. ‘I’m going to be late.’ She hurries out into the hall, grabs a padded coat from off the end of the stair rail, picks up a pea green fitness bag off the floor. She pops her head around the kitchen door. ‘I’m really sorry about this but I’m going to have to—’ she holds out her hand, ‘I can put your coffee in a paper cup if you like, for the car.’

  He’s surprised, he didn’t see that coming at all. ‘No, it’s ok, really. I probably should have phoned… I’m a bit of a spur of the moment person.’

  She lifts a bunch of keys off a key holder by the door. ‘Got to go now, have a safe journey.’

  He leaps to his feet, she hustles him out of the front door, locks it behind her. ‘Lovely to meet you, Lottie,’ he says with his hand resting on the gate.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ she turns left, along the path towards the back of the house. Just as he had done the night before. ‘I’m going to walk across the field, there’s an opening at the back of the house. It’s quicker.’

  ‘I can give you a lift if you like?�
� He holds the gate open for her to pass through.

  ‘No really, it’s just as quick through the fields, it’ll wake me up.’ She casts a hurried goodbye over her shoulder.

  Jimmy walks along the road, towards the nature reserve, and as he turns to wave, he realises that she’s already gone. He wonders what he said that scared her, he could tell she was scared, it was the way she got flustered when he asked her when they’d met. He can feel in his gut that something isn’t right, there was something about her, why would she lie to him about that? And why on earth was she with him in the first place? He’d turned into an arrogant ponce, with a plum stuck well down his mouth. He must have got rid of his accent long ago. He’d been shocked to see him at the gallery.

  He’s going to make sure that Fizz steers well clear of him. And he’s going to have a word with Carlo, clear a few things up. He takes out his phone, checks his messages, there’s an unknown number. He wonders who it is.

  ‘Call me as soon as you can, Jimmy. I need to talk to you urgently.’

  His interest is piqued, but it isn’t as strong as his need to talk with his daughter and Carlo. He spots his car in the carpark and sprints towards it; the sooner he gets home the better. Then the penny drops. He stops at the next services, there’s something he needs to do now. Before the damage is done.

  34

  The early morning briefing that started dead on ten thirty is almost at an end. All eyes are on Mel.

  ‘So, the police reports regarding Lily Probisher. Badger, what did you find?’

  Badger stands up, pushes his wire-rimmed glasses back up his nose. ‘We think it’s her, same date of birth. This was in north London though. Over a twelve-month period, 1998 to 1999. Three reports, two for an affray, one attempted suicide. Tried to throw herself under a train on the underground, some bloke pulled her back. Parents refused to help. Nothing since then.’

  ‘Sounds like she’s had psychological problems.’ Mel gets to her feet. ‘Any record of the psychiatrist that sectioned her?’